


like a son.

by Adverb_Slut



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Affairs, Cheating, Emotional Hurt, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Infidelity, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), aka me massacring a currently strained relationship and then trying to build it back up again, why do i put myself in these messes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 12,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adverb_Slut/pseuds/Adverb_Slut
Summary: When Hamilton reveals all the details of his sordid affair in the "Reynolds Pamphlet," Eliza divulges unto him her own secret: Philip Hamilton isn't his son, but rather the son of John Laurens.This secret, along with Hamilton's own infidelity, shakes the family to its very core, and to make matters worse, the presumed-dead Laurens returns, very muchaliveand with absolutely no knowledge that Philip ishischild.100 – 500 word chaptersdumb crackwhat if?AU stemmed from the fact that Anthony Ramos played both Laurens and Philip
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, mild Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens undertones because honestly they’re gonna be there anyway, some Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler/John Laurens if you squint
Comments: 43
Kudos: 65





	1. secret

**Author's Note:**

> Philip is fifteen in this fic, btw, just as he was when the real "Reynolds Pamphlet" was published.
> 
> Short chapters because I'm lazy, but there will be some longer ones when more important parts come, I hope. D:
> 
> This was initially going to be a part of my _The ABCs of the Hamiltons_ story, but when I remembered that it had to be an AU and that it was growing into more than just a oneshot, I decided to make it it's own story!
> 
> **I'm afraid to admit it, but there will be _so_ many historical and timeline inaccuracies to anger anyone who pays even the slightest bit of attention to history, so please forgive me in advance!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza has a secret. _insert ominous ghost noises here_

There was always something in Eliza Hamilton's air that exuded elegance, something that plainly stated that she was used to the highest of luxury and was adept at keeping to the decorum prescribed to gentlewomen. However, today, as she clutched one wrinkly, tear-stained copy of the "Reynolds Pamphlet," she looked less and less like a woman of noble bearing and far too akin to the slighted wife that she was, to Alexander's liking.

He longed to reach out his hand and maybe wipe away the lone tear rolling down her face—for, despite his tomcat ways, it was one of his chief dislikes to see Eliza cry—but he dared not touch her. 

And it was a good thing he didn't, for suddenly, she whipped toward him, black eyes rippling with pitch resentment. They softened as she directed them across the parlor, where their family portrait hung, and her eyes rested on the image of a tall, curly-haired boy who beamed between his parents and whose arms wrapped around the rest of their flock that stood before him.

"I ..." Eliza began at present, and her eyes turned back to Alexander, who gulped when he saw the mildly gleeful, but just nonetheless, retribution that was spoken through them. On the table, she set down her crinkled copy of the "Reynolds Pamphlet" and gave it a resentful glance. "I have a secret, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 231
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	2. revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**NOT JOHN LAURENS????????** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in two days? yes, blame the extremely short chapters so that I can write fast whenever the inspiration hits!!
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

Eliza lived a quiet life. Martha Washington had once called it "dull but not unpleasant, only proffering that which is stored up in the small affairs of a housewife," and she was not wrong. Despite having grown up in a comfortable and wealthy home, Eliza had become quickly accustomed to life aboard Alexander's tiny skiff of poverty, with only love and salubrious monotony for ballast. 

Uninteresting as her life was, Alexander could not fathom what kind of "secret" she could be hiding. He waved his arms and assuaged, "Eliza, I know you're angry, but you don't have to tell tales to get back at me."

This was _obviously_ the wrong thing to say, as Eliza's eyes flashed and glittered with a pathetic sort of danger. She did not justify his words with a response in kind but turned from him and declared, "You have one less son than you think you do."

He was quiet for a moment. "... Why, there's Philip, and James, and Alexander, and Billy—and then little John." His voice grew higher with every name, for he was very conscious of what Eliza's admission meant, but he was trying to keep up even the slightest guise of composure—it was all he could do in order to drown out the cadence _onelesssononelesssonelessson_ that thumped in his brain.

Even Eliza looked pale as she whispered, "Philip isn't yours."

Alexander's throat was as dry as sawdust as he laughed, in attempts to convince himself that he believed not a word she said, but was rather indulging her imagination by asking, "Then whose is he?"

Eliza wouldn't meet his eyes. "John Laurens's."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 272
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	3. never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Eliza @ A.Ham** : D:<

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fact: If I was alive in the late 1700s and Hamilton hadn’t married Eliza, I totally would have lmao. As a birthday present to myself, I 100% think I should be allowed to.
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

Most men, when confronted with their wives' infidelity (even if it was in tandem with their own), immediately assault the other vessel in their marriage with thousands of questions, all of which—said in an accusing tone—are "not to blame, but to begin to understand the situation (HA!)."

Alexander, however, realized that he could answer most of the questions that tore through his brain by himself.

 _When_? That was easy enough: when he had worked under George Washington, he had been persuaded to spend many nights concocting letters to Congress, and the only person that he had trusted enough to protect Eliza while he was away was John Laurens. John had slept on the couch in the parlor, or so Alexander had _assumed_ , for weeks in order to guard Eliza _at her husband's request_. 

_Where_? Oh, God, his own house, definitely. Here, he blanched, for the realization dawned on him that in the very same bed where John and Eliza must have lain was, in fact, the same one where he and Maria had caroused _many_ a night.

 _Why_? Alexander had an inkling that loneliness had everything to do with it, but, as he was an impenitent hypocrite, he did not think loneliness a valid reason for adultery, so he shelved that as a possible accusation to delve into at a later time (there was enough on his plate already).

The only question he had left flew from his lips as he whirled Eliza around so that she faced him. "Eliza, _how_ _could_ you—"

But before he finished the sentence, Eliza's eyes kindled, for she knew what he had the audacity to ask, and she did the one thing that she nor Alexander had ever done to each other: she slapped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 293
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	4. struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _slap!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

Eliza's face crumpled along with her hand, and she stared at the appendage as if it was some foreign and violent object. She balled her hand into a fist and clutched it close to her chest, before turning to Alexander with a firm expression. 

"Don't you _dare_ ask me how I could do such a thing when in my hand," she lifted a sheet of the "Reynolds Pamphlet" off of the table, "I hold proof that you yourself have done it, as well!"

The skin on Alexander's face stung from her blow, but at her words, his pride took an even more severe beating. Lest he turn indignant at such a time, he took a deep breath, before resuming a calmer air—which decidedly clashed with the frenzy in his eyes and the thunderous beating of his heart. 

He decided to take a less accusatory route and then asked, "Did—did Laurens touch you without your permission?" He longed to punctuate the query with "my love," but he feared that it would only earn him another strike.

"No," said Eliza, ducking her head, "it was consensual."

"I see."

Not liking his tone, her head shot up. She exhaled deeply before turning and marching toward their bedroom without another word.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"There's something I must do," was all she said.

Alexander yearned to settle the matter, but Eliza was gone, and he knew better than to disturb her in this state. So, he walked into his office, set a lantern whose flame _burned_ with cheerful ardor onto his desk, and pulled out every single letter that was signed with "Forever yours, John Laurens."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so you guys know, when Eliza walks to Alexander and her's bedroom, she is going to burn all of Alexander's letters in the lovely song "Burn" that we all know and love.
> 
>  **Up Next™** : **Alexander** : " _im burning the letters u wrote me, your ghost can stand over there if he wants_ "
> 
>  **Word Count** : 277
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	5. burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm watching it burn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

Early in his life had Alexander made a name for himself as a prolific writer. His pen seemed to possess a mind of its own, scribbling and scratching and redipping in inkstands, until the final product—which might originally have been a simple note that told Eliza that he would be late for dinner—was a four-page declaration of his love for her and for excuses, the latter of which he promised he would never make again (only for Eliza to find another letter of the sort the next week). 

And, having spent so much time with him, it was only natural for John Laurens to pick up some of the techniques that Alexander used to produce such volumes, and pick them up he did.

The stack of letters rivaled the height of the flaming lantern that sat dangerously close to it, threatening to ignite the tower at a moment's notice. 

Alexander unfolded the topmost letter, the last one John had sent him before he had died, and stared blankly at it. Once upon a time, he would have run his fingers over the words, half-wondering if the coy teases and intelligent declarations meant something more, but today, all he could do was memorize John's familiar script, before slowly guiding the paper into the lantern fire.

It caught instantly, and he felt a tiny tear dribble out of his eye. He wiped it away in an instant when he remembered the reason as to why this had to be done. 

It was time for him to stop badgering _only_ Eliza about her involvement in this whole Philip debacle, and remember that John had had an equal part in it.

His voice broke as he watched letter after letter disintegrate into ash and murmured, "Because of you, I can't say to Philip anymore, 'I love you, my son.'" When another tear appeared, he blinked hard and almost wished John would answer for what he had done. "Now I can only tell him, 'I love you _like_ a son.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 336 
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	6. perplexion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip Hamilton do be puzzled tho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while listening to "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story" and pretty much bawled through it ... because _how could I make Hamilton and Eliza do this to each other_?
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

At fifteen, Philip Hamilton had enough tact to know that sharing a bed is _not_ indicative of a relationship's health. Several of his mates' parents were in love to a repulsive degree and preferred the comfort of separate beds, whilst another's parents squirmed uncomfortably on a single cot with not a drop of affection between them. 

However, he knew that for _his_ parents, sharing a bed was a sign of their commitment to one another. When his younger self was afflicted with nightmares, he would often shuffle to his parents' room for solace, only to become hesitant to interrupt their slumber once he reached the threshold, for they looked _so_ cozy wrapped in each other's embrace. 

But just yesterday, with no ceremony except to ask James' assistance, his father had bought a mite of a foldaway bed and hauled it into his office. His mother had nothing to say in the matter, except to watch her husband with an expression that mingled regret with obstinacy. Philip privately noted that it was a similar expression with which she nowadays looked at him, only with devotion instead of intransigence.

As the home peace was disturbed with his father's wicked announcement in the "Reynolds Pamphlet," Philip didn't want to upset it even further by questioning the changed behaviors of his mother _and_ father, the latter of whom seldom spoke to him, except in an altered tone that dripped with confusion, although it remained as loving as ever.

He had expected his father to be far more penitent after his sins had been aired, but strangely enough, he stared at his wife with eyes that were not apologetic, but rather hard, and Philip could not shake the slimy feeling that this lack of repentance had something to do with _him_ , although he had no clue which part he shared in the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 308
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	7. neighbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new neighbor???????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

Every appeal there was in staying home was gone. Where once he had cherished time with his family, finished letter after letter to various personages, and celebrated his days off, Alexander could find no respite from the weight of his and Eliza's sins and Philip's curious green eyes.

So, he went for walks about the city, strolling with his head down—lest people remember the face of the man who had published his affair in the "Reynolds Pamphlet"—for hours at a time, only returning when it was the latest moments of dusk, just before the children could begin their innocent queries as to whether their father had gone to carouse at another woman's home.

He longed to quell their questions, all made valid by that intrepid pamphlet, by pointing out that their mother was just as guilty as he, but alas, at present, he could not discern how to divulge this information to the rest of his family without causing much grief to Philip.

Methods of airing this dirty laundry to his children as benignly as possible were on his mind, as he took his final turn about the neighborhood one evening. The Hamiltons never did find themselves in possession of great riches or a steady income, even with Alexander's job as Secretary of the Treasury, so the family tended to rent properties that were within their current earning range. This left them scampering from neighborhood to neighborhood, never in the same spot for more than a few years.

Currently, they lived in one of the homes in a rowhouse in a quiet suburb of New York, and just as Alexander was about to climb up the stairs to his front door, he noticed a stranger—hauling trunks behind him as if he were just moving in—hunched over and fumbling with the lock in the house next to his.

Before he could offer his assistance, the stranger turned to him to ask for the same thing. Alexander felt his heart stop when he noticed the stranger's chestnut curls and green eyes, the latter of which were filled with enough mirth and impetuosity to provoke a saint, just as he had last seen them fifteen years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~In case it isn't obvious as to who the stranger is, it's Laurens.~~
> 
> **Word Count** : 368
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	8. specter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _extremely spooky ghost noises_  
> .  
> .   
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> haha jk there are no ghosts in this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghjkl these chapters get longer and longer as i remember that i just _clenches chest_ **really** love writing (but will have no motivation to do so unless i write short chapters)
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**

It took a good minute for Alexander to feel the breath come back into his lungs. The stranger—John Laurens—seemed just as surprised to see him and stared dumbly into Alexander's eyes, but, as Alexander never _could_ meet the green depths for very long without feeling lightheaded, _he_ transfixed his gaze onto the distracting little curl which had escaped out of John's ponytail and now rested on his forehead.

It was then that Alexander, who _could not_ believe that the figure before him was _truly_ John Laurens, came to but one conclusion: the person standing in front of him was a ghost.

Alexander had never believed in ghosts until now, as he realized that his years of longing to touch and hold and as of late, _sock_ John in the mouth, had finally paid off in the form of the ghost of said abolitionist appearing before him. Just as he thought this, John paled and his _very_ much corporeal fingers began to curiously poke and prod _Alexander_ as if _he_ were the ghost, and not the other way around.

When both John and Alexander himself realized that the person standing in front of him was not a phantom, but a living being composed of flesh and bone, each jumped a step back, nearly flying off their respective staircases in the process.

"No—no, you're supposed to be _dead_ ," was all Alexander could get the breath to say, while John blanched further and stuttered, "Y—y—you're n—not supposed to live _here_."

Alexander, whose thundering heart had drowned out every word the other man had said, could not, for the life of him, discern what now he was supposed to do during this sudden encounter with a friend to whom he had said his excruciating goodbyes _years_ ago.

John, it seemed, had a better presence of mind and grinned sheepishly at his friend, and, forgetting all shock at their rendezvous, he hugged him so warmly that it caused Alexander physical pain when, in an instant, he shoved the embrace away.

Flushing at what would have been the feeling of John's arms around him—a feeling that fifteen years of absence would have failed to make less affectionate and _right_ , Alexander readjusted his position on the railing and stared at the love of his life—third only to Eliza and America—as he remembered the shame and misfortune John had brought upon Philip's head, as well as the agony he _himself_ had suffered when said lover had been declared dead.

Alexander's mind was fixed on this notion for a moment before he measuredly reached into his coat pocket and produced a pistol. He had never carried arms on his civilian person before, but after his sudden notoriety, he had figured it was best to always carry an implement with which to defend himself in case the rabble in the streets became too rowdy.

Alexander fiddled with the trigger—ignoring John's raised eyebrow—and aimed it at his _former_ friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 499
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**


	9. challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's the ten duel commandments" haha no not yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this earlier than I want to for no reason!
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**

John—who possessed an impulsive and chaotic temperament—started twitching with nervous excitement upon seeing the pistol, and Alexander was glad of it, for it showed that not a particle of John's anarchic soul had been lost in the fifteen years that had passed since his "death." 

"Jack," he began, clenching the handle tighter, "I demand satisfaction: did you or did you not sleep with Eliza fifteen years ago?" 

John's raised eyebrow only flew higher. "We see each other for the first time in _years_ and _that's_ what you want to ask?" When Alexander didn't answer except with a glare that dripped with derision, he sighed and said, "I really thought you already knew." 

"Is that a _yes_?" 

A gulp followed by an honest "It is," from John, whose gaze teleported to the ground at the words, sealed Alexander's heart with a thick cloud of anxiety. 

Precipitately, he put down the pistol and adjusted his collar. "Well, then." Hellbent on keeping his composure and not becoming lost in John's eyes—neither of which were an easy feat—Alexander returned his attention back to the adorable curl and declared, "On behalf of your bastard son, Philip, whose name you have so _ruined_ , I demand that you stand, John Laurens, in a duel." 

"Philip? Isn't that _your_ son—" John's eyes flew open at the realization. " _No_." 

Alexander's lips formed a thin line. "Yes." 

" _No_ , no, no," chanted John, his eyes widening to a degree that they looked as if they were to pop out of his head, as he raked a hand through his hair. "She would've told me— _no_ , no, _no_ —she would've said something—no, _no_ , no." He looked at Alexander straight in the eye with such a magnetizing stare that he could not avoid it. "Alex, I'm _so_ sorry." 

Every fiber in Alexander's being yearned to accept the apology, but Philip's face appeared in his mind, and he hardened his heart until the boy's honor could thoroughly be revitalized. "Weehawken. Now. We duel." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will also be posted tomorrow and will be a longer one, for I've decided that every tenth chapter will be anywhere from 1,000 to 2,500 words, for my obsession with writing must have a vent _some_ where!
> 
>  **Word Count** : 334
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**


	10. THE NIGHT OF ONE THOUSAND CONDEMNED COMFORTS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, when I got the idea for this fic, it was basically "haha its funny how Anthony Ramos (happy belated birthday king) plays laurens and Philip hmmmmmmmmmmm maybe what if thats because Eliza had an affair with john and then WHAT IF HE NEVER HAD DIED IN THE FIRST PLACE" and when I realized that that prospect had enough conflict and aftereffects to create a whole story, I wrote it down. 
> 
> I _never_ thought about how this whole affair went about because frankly, that wasn't what I was focusing on, but since I had some people across various platforms wondering why the heck this would happen (totally valid btw), I decided to try my hand and write a flashback scene for the night of Philip's conception. Like I said, I hadn't planned this out at _all_ so forgive me if it's just ... I don't know ... _bad_? I don't love it, but ask and you shall receive, so here you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every tenth chapter will have 1,000 to 2,500 words, while the rest, as you can see, have 100 to 500 words!
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**

As this was all happening, Eliza found herself _alone_ at home—as she often did nowadays—managing the children, who haunted the house with a grave aspect, feeling unfit to do their juvenile little duties, for the very heart of their home peace was disrupted.

Most of them tried to look unconscious of this fact and put on jovial airs, but their eyes were dismal. Their discomfort was only heightened when each day, they saw their father—a man who used to convulse them with laughter by way of his droll imitations of Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and on occasion, King George III—creep out of the house with a face so disconsolate that they nearly asked what the matter was, that is, until they remembered their vow of unassumingness and watched him go in silence.

Eliza noted that there was one child who could not put on the guise of serenity. Philip now seemed to observe everything and everyone with a perturbed solemnity that contrasted greatly from his usual brash and riotous nature. What bothered her most was that the boy knew _nothing_ of his mother's affair and was still under the impression that he was the son of the great _—_ although now notorious _—_ Alexander Hamilton. So _why_ was he drifting about the house as if he were an anxious wraith?

It brought her no comfort when, as she sat with the baby on her arm in the parlor, Philip laid his body upon the couch where she sat and nestled his head onto her lap. As a mother, she found it a blessing when her eldest boy—already fifteen and considering to prescribe to the boyish notion that holding fast to one's mother was a sign of weakness—sought her out as a solace, but after detecting the distress in his eyes, she was not sure if she, who played a part in his trouble, was a proper site of refuge.

Eliza said nothing and tenderly ran her free hand through his curls, holding in a hiss when she remembered from _where_ he had inherited such a coily crop, and waited for him to speak. When he did nothing for a long moment except sigh, she continued to wait patiently, only turning her gaze to the baby she held in her arm.

Baby John cooed at her and beamed his toothless smile, and she returned it with every iota of brightness her body would allow. Despite this, her eyes remained dim, for _why_ had she thought it a good idea to name her precious infant _John_? Her eldest's appearance and personality (although he did his best to mimic Alexander to an eerie degree) was always a reminder of her sins, and now her youngest's _name_ was, as well.

She groaned. If anyone had asked her if she was sorry for the incident that had led to Philip's conception fifteen years ago, she would have cried _yes_ , oh _yes_! She loathed to remember it, and once John Laurens had died, she had planned on taking the knowledge of Philip's true parentage to her grave, but alas for the "Reynolds Pamphlet!"

When Eliza had first read it, all she knew was that she felt incensed and heartbroken and so, so, so _helpless_. Her wits took their leave that day, and all she knew was that she wanted to hurt Alexander just as much as he had hurt _her_ with this news, and robbing him of his beloved firstborn had, at the time, seemed to be the best way to go about doing so.

Oh, if she could only go back in time and stop herself from doing the thing which had caused pain for so many; she would have had nothing to admit to, then. Noticing that both the baby's and Philip's breathing had evened out in sleep, she leaned back and allowed herself to reminisce that terrible day.

* * *

✦ _**Fifteen Years Earlier**_ ✦  
 _ **1781**_

* * *

_Being bred to be a gentlewoman, Eliza Hamilton had a decided lack of talent in needlework, but now, as a poor man's wife, she had no choice but to learn the necessary skill of sewing, for tailors were more expensive than she had anticipated. Besides, clumsy male fumblings over buttons undid even the most adept seamstress' stitches in no time._

_Still, sewing remained an afterthought once the rest of the domestic duties were completed, and it was always late at night when Eliza remembered that she still had many bits of needlework to do._

_Tonight was a particular trial, for her task was to resew every button on her husband's one greatcoat, which, for any beginning seamstress, was quite daunting. She had already completed two buttons earlier in the week but, pulling and pushing needles through the thick woolen fabric was so tiring that she couldn't find the energy to do the rest until now._

_She normally would have found it quite lonesome to toast her feet by the fireplace and complete the uninteresting sewing, especially without Alexander to sip tea by her side and read aloud from the paper, but as it stood, she discovered solace in the man he had sent as a companion in his place, while he brooded over letters with General Washington—his most beloved friend, John Laurens._

_Eliza would have been remiss if she did not admit to noticing how the man unconsciously drew her husband to him as easily as flowers did bees, and occasionally, she_ did _entertain the thought that something_ beyond _brotherhood bloomed in the two men's bosoms, but, she did her duty as an unassuming little wife and outwardly regarded their bond as nothing more than an "intense friendship," which she herself fancied to be apart of._

_She watched now, threading her needle, as John stared absently at the fire from upon the parlor couch, where he had been sleeping for the past few weeks. His face, usually bursting with gayness and unconcealed bravery, was now contemplative, and his knit brows telegraphed that he was more than a trifle worried. She could only imagine it was because his dearest friend had been away for so long, and she felt a sense of kinship as her husband's warm scent wafted through the greatcoat on her lap._

_For a moment, Eliza brought up the coat and nestled her face in the familiar fabric, longing for Alexander to return home, for he had been gone for_ too much time _. In doing so, her needle slid off her lap, and upon hearing its tinny_ clang _on the hearth, John awoke from his reverie and reached down to retrieve it._

 _He looked at her as he placed the needle back in her open palm. "If I was any good at sewing, I'd offer to finish that for you and send you to bed; you look_ so _tired, Betsy, dear."_

_Eliza smiled. "There's no need, Jack—I'm almost done."_

_She was_ not _almost done. In fact, in the past hour, she had only finished fastening_ one _of the remaining six buttons onto the coat, and the leftovers jangled traitorously in her workbasket as she reached into it to grab more thread, which had snapped in her inept fingers for the fourth time that night._

 _As she squinted to rethread her needle, John merrily watched her numerous failings in the prospect before saying, "Let_ me _try."_

_She gave the needle to him in an instant, and to her eternal disgrace, he threaded it with an expertise that was astounding. "You do that so well!"_

_His response was only a small smile and a modest shrug, which shocked her more than the needle display, for it showed that John's usually boisterous spirit had been quenched._

_She did not know if it was her place to ask if he missed Alexander as much as_ she _did, so she stayed quiet, but before the silence could stretch into infinity, John cleared his throat and noted glumly, "He's been gone a long time."_

_"He's busy with the General," was the only solace she could proffer for the both of them._

_He then turned to her from the sofa with a look so familiar—for she had worn it herself many times—and hot and miserable and which displayed a_ dire _need of comfort, that flushing, she immediately stood up, and shoving the needle and greatcoat into her workbasket, turned to scuttle off to her bedroom. "You're right—I_ am _tired. I should go to bed. Good night, Jack, dear."_

_The night might have been salvaged if this kind, but foolish little woman hadn't torn a page from Lot's wife's book and turned to look back at the Sodom that was her parlor, just as she reached her bedroom threshold._

_John's troubled stare had not changed a mite, as he quietly said "Please, come comfort me, Betsy" in a most decorous manner._

_Feeling forlorn and encouraged by his tone—which betrayed no desire for dishonorable conduct—she turned to sit by his side on the couch._

_In the moonlight, the two engaged for several minutes in conversation that did nothing but eulogize the acts of one Alexander Hamilton, and they talked as if he were among the dearly departed, instead of in another part of town. Both were scrupulous in remembering every quality in him that was good and noble and kind (conveniently forgetting that he had many faults, for just now, to them, he was more divine than human) and had not many bursts of sadness escaped out of both, it would have been well into dawn before they had run out of things to say._

_But, alas, the two were sensitive souls and neither could repress the sniffles that punctuated every sentence._

_Eliza found herself leaning upon John's breast, as she stared at the greatcoat which lay in her workbasket and sighed. "I wish he were here."_

_"Me, too."_

_"This hole in my heart wouldn't be so gaping if my Alexander were home."_

_"Mine, as well."_

_"If only the revolution could spare him for a day, all would be good."_

_"Ditto, Betsy, ditto."_

_She pressed one hand upon John's chest and turned to look at him with thankful eyes, for knowing that someone felt the same way as she did was_ such _a comfort. "You are kind to stay with me, John." Feeling better, she gave his hand one final squeeze before rising off the couch to go to bed._

 _His eyes, which were clouded still with such misery that she forgot her own momentary alleviation, met hers, and he stared at her meditatively before saying, "Will you, then, be kind and stay with_ me _tonight, Eliza?"_

_It was too great a demand, she realized, but she knew herself and her strong morals well, and so allowed the quiet whisper, "I will."_

_This did not seem to ease the pucker between John's brows, but he nodded and slid over on the couch to make room._

_There were no blankets, so she rolled herself up in Alexander's greatcoat. His scent surrounded her at once, and she let out a sob that was near-mute, for she was still highly aware that she had a bedfellow._

_Said bedfellow came to attention when his vigilant ears heard her cry, and John murmured, "Am I not enough of a comfort to you, dear?"_

_Eliza swallowed the successive sob and shook her head. "No—no, I just—"_

_"I know—I know," replied John when her voice failed. He laid upon her forehead a few amiable and compassionate kisses, before pausing. "Shall I stop?"_

_Completely overcome by loneliness and gratitude at the friendly gesture, she let the tears roll down her cheeks and said, "No."_

_At this invitation, John's lips lingered against her skin for longer intervals, but they lacked the all-consuming passion one usually had when kisses drifted from the forehead to the lips. She found her own responses to be dulled and lethargic, yet the feeling of another person's skin was_ so _nice that neither could stop themselves, as their touches became less and less cordial and more and more sensuous._

_Undressing was a burden that not one of the pair wanted to assume, but as they had already started the deed, they figured they might as well finish it. Off went their clothes as Eliza bit her lips, and, knowing that when John Laurens did a thing, he did it sprightly, suggested they move to the bedroom._

* * *

✦ _**Present Day**_ ✦  
 _ **1797**_

* * *

At present, Eliza realized that that proposition alone should have been the blow that brought the two back to their senses, but at the time, it had seemed better to divest themselves of loneliness _together_ rather than apart, which is _exactly_ what they had done that fateful night.

She couldn't look back at it without feeling a clot of disdain for herself, but, after seeing the sleeping boy on her lap, she refused to think the night a _complete_ loss, for, after all, it had bequeathed her a most precious gift.

Oh, but if only the gift had been given to her by her beloved Alexander!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we'll get back to the Hamilton and Laurens interactions in the next chapter!
> 
>  **Word Count** : 2,166
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**


	11. duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "number ten, paces fire!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

Their ride across the Hudson was silent, for Alexander tried to numb his entire being with the sedative that he knew worked best—a blank mind. John, meanwhile, would not move his crouched head from between his knees, trying deeply to overcome seasickness and the general shock he felt at Alexander's news _and_ his challenge.

At the dueling ground in Weehawken, there was a widespread cacophony at seeing the disgraced Treasury Secretary and the strange man that walked beside him (fifteen years of absence had done little to preserve John Laurens' memory in the minds of the New Jersey populace). 

The pair decided not to follow the traditional twenty-five duel commandments, as the challenge itself had not been demanded in line with the rules. They even went so far as to forgo the use of a second, for both thought it in bad taste to confer with others when the person who normally would've been their right-hand man was on the other side of the dueling ground.

Alexander watched as one of the onlookers offered John a pistol, which was taken with a hand that twitched with what may have been trepidation or excitement, Alexander did not know.

The two took their ten paces from across each other and Alexander held out his own pistol, silently cursing himself when his body quaked and his grip on the trigger became slick with sweat. Across the way, he saw John, whose green eyes were alight with a streak of courage and a dash of fear—to which Alexander blanched because, for the first time, he realized just how _similar_ John and Philip looked. 

Same expressive face, same daring green eyes, same chestnut curls ... dear _God_ , how had he not realized their relation before?

For a moment, he could see a little boy playing the piano with his mother, attempting to chant French numbers to her cadence, but accidentally changing the melody every time. Philip was so small then, and just so proud to show his father—no, to show _Alexander_ —what he could do.

John's gaze met his, and Alexander inhaled sharply as he reminded himself that it wasn't _Philip_ standing before him, but John Laurens, the man who had brought a future of disgrace upon a boy whose only crime was being born.

But then, a quiet voice in his mind reminded him that it was _John_.

 _His_ John.

And then Alexander _tried_. 

He tried, oh, he _tried_ , to force his finger down onto the trigger when the cue "Fire!" was screamed by the duel regulators, but he just couldn't do it.

He aimed his pistol at the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel like the ending was expected with this one, but ah well.
> 
>  **Word Count** : 438
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	12. no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton takes a stand (with the stamina God has granted him).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to the last chapter, I guess the _beginning_ in this was predictable, lol.
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**

He aimed his pistol at the sky. 

_He aimed his pistol at the sky._

Alexander didn't know exactly what he expected to happen once the firing command was given, but there was one thing that he knew for sure: John would _not_ throw away his shot. Not throwing away one's shot was a personal law that both Alexander and he abided by, and it was what had guided them in their successful duel against General Lee. 

So, it felt, rather, as if he _had_ been shot, when fourteen seconds after "Fire!" Alexander found himself pinned against a tree in the least decorous of all bear hugs by one John Laurens. 

"Alex, I knew you wouldn't shoot. My _God_ , give me a second; let me get a good look at you," breathed John, his voice muffled against Alexander's shoulder. 

This time, his embrace was not pushed away, but Alexander was still too much in a state of things to return it. His body was a corpse as he asked in a stilted tone, " _Where_ have you _been_?" 

"Ah, yes," John pulled back, looking sheepish, " _that_." He paused to return his borrowed pistol to its owner, before motioning his friend along. "Come, we'll talk over drinks." 

_Well_ , that was all _too_ much from a man who'd left him in the lurch for so long. 

Alexander dug his heels into the ground. " _No_." When John looked back at him with curious eyes, he ground his teeth, feeling his previous ire boil up. His voice trembled as he repeated, " _No_. You don't get to disappear for fifteen years—after sleeping with my _wife_ , and siring a son, no less—and _expect_ me to wait to hear why you've come back." He took a step forward. Something like tears filled his eyes, and his fists were balled up so tight that his fingernails drew enough blood to warrant one of the onlookers to call for a medic. "You _don't_ get to leave me mourning you every minute for _five_ - _thousand_ - _four_ - _hundred_ - _and_ - _seventy_ - _eight_ days, leave me willing to dig my own grave just so I could be where you are, leave me feeling like the days are _just a shadow and devoid of color just because you aren't here_.” He shook his head so hard his teeth chattered. “ _No_ , you don't get to do that." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Word Count** : 384
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :D**


	13. explain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which john reminisces on his past of stupidity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**So many historically inaccurate things in this chapter ... please forgive me and ignore them for the sake of the plot :(** _
> 
> See any plot holes? Uhhhh as it goes, they're there for ventilation! _hides_
> 
> Anyways, yay! Finally finished writing chapter 20 (that will be our next 1.5k - 2k word chapter) and am going to take a break from writing this story to work on my other Hamilton fanfic. I will not stop updating this story as i still have like 7 chapters to post ofc!
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**

The words did not have the staggering effect that Alexander had hoped for, for instead, John blushed as red as a poppy. "You’re right … of course." He quivered and shook his head, and Alexander watched as he clenched and unclenched his fists several times before suddenly snapping into a stance that left his back soldier-straight. "Alex, I've said this before, but I'm _so_ sorry—about Eliza, about the boy—"

“ _Philip_ —” Alexander cut in. 

“Philip, yes, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make it up to _you_ or Eliza _or_ Philip ... but, forgive me, I want to see _them_ first before I say anything more.” 

Alexander didn’t respond to this, for frankly, it was a hard thing to concede to and forgive, even if before he _had_ been willing; luckily, his lack of reproach was as good as an assent. His head ached at the apology and John's desire to see those whom he had effectively cursed, but there was still one thing left to be settled, one thing that his previous monologue had plainly showed nettled him: “You still didn’t answer my question.” 

"I— … of course," was John's abashed reply. His gaze fell to the ground, as he walked forward to bridge the gap Alexander had placed between them. "I've been ... away." 

"I’m aware.” 

"In England." 

" _No_." 

"Yes—" 

"We had just won a war against them and then you went _back_?" 

"Yes ... but I grew up there, you know." 

"O _kay_." 

"I had a wife there," John went on. 

He examined his fingernails, for this had been a fact that John had kept from him for over a year. "Yes, Martha. I believe you said that you two didn't like each other much." 

"Ra _ther_. But ... there was someone else there I _did_ love a great deal." 

Alexander did not want to admit that something inside him tightened upon hearing those words. He coughed and eked out a nonchalant expression. "Another lover? How sly of you." 

John's eyes turned inexplicably grave, and he looked as if he were biting the inside of his cheek painfully. "No, my daughter ... Frances." 

_Relief_. "Ah." 

His entire body turning limp, John put a hand on Alexander's shoulder, as if to steady himself. "Only, I was given word three weeks ago that her mother and she were lost at sea." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do a lot of research for this fic because if I do, I know that the research will guide my story and I'll try to have everything be historically accurate and not use my own brain and imagination to focus on the dumb plot I already have contrived, but one thing that I think remains accurate in this scene is that John and Martha married to protect the legitimacy of their child (at least, I think that's how it goes, please correct me if I'm wrong), and _that's_ why John says he doesn't care for her much.
> 
>  **Word Count** : 392
> 
> **Feedback is always appreciated! :)**


	14. back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftermath of the duel and whatnot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, lots of historical inaccuracies n plot holes

Alexander's cot was _not_ very comfortable. He knew that he wasn't particularly tall, but by _God_ , this bed seemed to be made for _dwarves_ rather than grown men! In addition to its nonexistent length, the bed was only wide enough for _one_ person _if_ they were laying on their side and was hard enough that he wagered that a rock would have been a more suitable sleeping spot. 

It was also _so_ strange to not feel Eliza's warm body pressed into him, to not feel her quiet breathing throughout the night. 

It was stranger, still, to him that his thoughts would permit him not an ounce of sleep, even though he _was_ tired and the refreshingness of slumber was _all_ he yearned for. His racing mind could not be halted, however, for it rewound and rewound the image of John Laurens' face when earlier that day he had said, "Only, I was given word three weeks ago that her mother and she were lost at sea." 

His eyes had been dull then, so dim that had Alexander not known him so well, he would have thought that they belonged to a soul pining for death rather than the vivacious man that he was. 

As it turned out, John had fled for England to be with his family shortly after the war and in a stroke of sheer _idiocy_ (Alexander's words, not his), had thought the best course of action in detailing his flight was to tell everyone who had ever loved him in America that he was dead, lest they think he a disloyal Yankee who had fought for a country in which he had no dreams to live in. 

He'd lived in London with a wife he did not love, but, to his eternal satisfaction, to whom he was an excellent match in parenting style, and with his daughter, Frances, whom he adored. For fifteen years they had lived together, until, upon a visit to Charleston, South Carolina in which John did not join, mother and daughter's passenger ship had been overturned in a storm, and neither had resurfaced. 

"My heart felt as if it had been split in two, it ached so," John had moaned, holding a hand to said organ with such a pained expression that Alexander had believed him on the spot. “And without them, there was nothing left for me in England anymore.” 

Of course, John's story didn't atone for years of pain, suffering, heartbreak, _Eliza_ , Philip, oh God, _Philip_ —he knew it would take years for even an atom of propitiation to be made. 

But at least Alexander had him _back_. 

... But that really wasn't enough for Philip, was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 446


	15. bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um so i'm pretty new to the fandom and just listened to all the deleted songs and just listened to "ten things, one thing" and the line "i know this puts me in a difficult spot, but i've got to throw away my shot" HIT ME SO HARD so anyway YEAH since i love/hate that line so much I'm trying to find a way to incorporate that into this story (even tho i probably cant) so beware

"... _I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make it up to_ you _or Eliza_ or _Philip_ ... _but, forgive me, I want to see_ them _first before I say anything more about this_.” 

John did not come to the Hamilton residence that day.

Or the next.

Nor the one after that.

Alexander silently fumed at his friend from the Sleepy Hollow chair in his office, feeling a tad bit restless, for he had stopped making his rounds about town since their meeting, lest he have to indulge the questions of any of the townspeople as to who the man he had dueled was.

Eliza had asked no questions regarding his sudden stint at home, only left him alone—which spoke volumes, for, prior to this whole debacle, she had reveled in any chance to be at her husband's side. In addition to this change in behavior, Alexander saw something new in her gaze that, to anyone more emotionally attuned than him, would have been recognized as a sliver of repentance.

However, he had no time to dwell upon the difference, for he was in a constant state of agitation. His ears were more receptive to the sound of knocking at the door and the sound of footsteps on the front stoop, all sure signs that John Laurens had finally come to witness the effects of his affair.

Needless to say, while Alexander had come to terms with the fact that his most beloved companion was _back_ , he had yet to fully forgive his past sins. Resentment that someone _else_ had touched Eliza's skin bubbled within him, but of course, that was _not_ what brought upon his raging emotions.

Philip was now a bastard.

 _Just like_ _him_.

And just like him, Philip possessed a father who had run away—although, Alexander was not too obstinate to realize that John had had no knowledge of his sired child at the time of his flight.

Alexander _knew_ _painfully_ well the feelings of hatred and inadequacy that Philip was bound to possess if the background of his birth were divulged to him, which is why he had decided to spare him the troubled tidings for as long as possible.

But, seeing as John had hinted at a visit, he decided it was better for the boy to finally be made aware of the truth, before the dreaded moment when his biological father arrived. Alexander walked out of his office, deciding that Eliza's clearance now on the situation did not necessarily matter (for, after all, he realized that it wasn't _her_ life that would be shattered to pieces at the news), as he wandered about the house in search for Philip.

He did not get a chance to disclose the information to him, however, for just as he spotted Philip sitting at the kitchen table with his mother, there was a knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc:480


	16. deference

Eliza knew from the moment that her husband had stopped strolling about the city that secrets were in the air. She realized that Alexander had used those long walks to clear his mind and relieve himself of the children's befuddling stares, so when they had stopped, it was very clear that there was something that he was not telling her. 

She had spent hours poring over the paper to see if there was some other great scandal that had broken out that would cause her husband to hide from society, but ... there was nothing. 

But she could tell that by his fretful manner and anxious brows that he was _waiting_ for something—something that he _knew_ would happen, and, determined not to be caught off guard, she made sure _she_ was the one who answered the unexpected knock at the door, even though Alexander had practically leaped at the sound of it, the tension on his face melting for just a moment. 

Philip, who was sitting quietly at the kitchen table, munching on a loaf of bread, followed her subserviently the moment she arose from her place and was right on her heels when she carefully opened the door. 

There, standing before her was a pair of blithe, but strangely penitent, green eyes that she had not seen in fifteen years. 

Shoving Philip behind her, Eliza felt faint and her mind became completely devoid of any matter of coherent thought. Her face paling and her voice barely above a whisper, she realized, "Jack ..." 

John's response was even shakier as he said, "Betsy, dear, you haven't changed a bit." 

Unlike Alexander, she entertained no notion that he may have been a ghost, and instead, willed herself not to slam the door in his face, as she swallowed hard. The query "why are you here" was on the tip of her tongue, but she only found herself murmuring, "You've been gone for so long." 

"I thought ..." he began, his voice becoming tender as he stopped short to ask, "May I see the boy?" 

Behind her, she heard Alexander, who had consigned himself to watching the interaction with blazing eyes, mutter to Philip with not a drop of surprise in his voice, "Go tell your brothers and sister to not come downstairs until I call." 

After hearing the patter of footsteps on the staircase, Eliza looked down at her feet, and shame caused her entire body to redden as she sidled against the wall. She breathed in a tone that did nothing but pay deference to her slighted husband, "Let me ask Alexander." 

Alexander stepped forward with his arms folded. "He'll see him." His voice dripped with something that stated that he had not an iota of sympathy for this awkward and, frankly, mortifying situation for John and his wife. 

Eliza could have thrown something at him if her wits hadn't decided to take their leave at the arrival and could only quietly usher John into the house with a "Come in, Jack." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 500


	17. disturbing

Philip Hamilton had not gotten a good look at the man who had greeted his mother at the door before he was pushed away, but after hearing her nervous voice and seeing his fathe's rigid stance, he was in _no_ hurry to make his way back downstairs after sequestering his siblings into one of the upstairs bedrooms.

After biding the rabble not to come down unless called for, Philip took to haunting the hallway and listened to the sounds below. From the top of the stairwell, he heard his father say in an unpitying tone, "He'll see him," followed by a moment of silence and then his mother's timid, "Come in, Jack."

 _Jack_? 

Philip had not heard that name in a _long_ while—save for the times when he crept by his parents' bedroom for comfort when he was younger, and his father muttered the name in his sleep. Before he could dwell on this fact further, he heard his father's voice saying from below, "Come downstairs, Philip, it's all right."

His comforting tone offered him no solace, though, for the anxiety that he had been singled out from his brothers and sister made him _very_ aware that his father and mother's current troubles _did_ have something to do with him, and, as a fifteen-year-old boy, he was _not_ excited for the reckoning. His pace down the stairs was molasses-like, and he did not know what was worse, knowing his siblings were probably crouched at the bedroom door to catch as many words of the drama as possible, or that the air below seemed bated, as if everyone were waiting for _him_.

As he emerged into the kitchen, where his father and the strange man were being served tea by his mother, Philip came to a conclusion: something about the man's appearance was very _wrong_.

Actually, wrong was not the right word, he realized— _disturbing_ was better.

It was like looking into a mirror. 

The man possessed the same tan skin as him, the same chestnut curls, the same green eyes, even the same wide smile, and Philip tried vainly to look unassuming at the resemblance. He did not move from the kitchen threshold, however, and only stared at the stranger, whose eyes widened at the sight of him.

His father took a sharp intake of breath upon seeing Philip, as his eyes traveled rapidly from the stranger and his son. He dropped his teacup. Philip could barely make out the words "How did I not realize it before?" during the crash.

Fortunately for her, his mother rushed to clean up the broken cup shards and therefore was not able to meet Philip's eyes, which were bewildered and spoke thousands of questions that no one knew how to answer. He could not begin to voice even one of them, for, before he could open his mouth to speak, the stranger stood up, and, with glossy eyes, breathed, "So _you're_ Philip."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 490


	18. stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> errr i wrote this like 10 days ago and have literally no recollection as to what this part's about!!!!!!

It was all Philip could do not to sprint back up the stairs upon hearing the man's voice, but he forced himself to stand to his colors and say "Yes, that's me."

At these words, the stranger's face paled and he took a step back, but at Alexander's "'Hem!" he stood up straight. Suddenly, he turned to peer at Eliza, who refused to look up from her dustpan and broom in a way that plainly betokened anxiety, and the man cleared his throat to stutter, "My name is John Laurens, and I ... I ... I'm so ... I just ... this is ..."

When his voice trailed off, Eliza stepped forward, and with her black eyes shining with regret, she admitted in a shaky tone, "This man is your father, Philip."

With the name "John Laurens," Philip had been reminded of days when he was younger and when his father aimed to keep his time as a soldier green and told stories of his martyred best friend, who had not lived to see the glory after the war, but even still, had given his life so cheerfully and willingly. His father had not spoken of him much in these later days, only whenever his name was mentioned, his eyes would look wistful and serene.

However, any amazement of how a man that his father had claimed _dead_ was now standing before him was thrown out the window at his mother's words. He could find no comfort in her, however, for she was now weeping and being administered weak consolations by the "Laurens man." Philip turned to his father. "Pops, what are they _talking_ about?"

The great Alexander Hamilton, a man who was renowned for never being at a loss for words, now bit his lip and appeared not to know what to say. "What your mother said is true, Philip."

"I'm _so_ sorry that you had to find out like this," added the man sorrowfully, as he handed Eliza his pocket-handkerchief, before devoting his attention to Philip.

A strange mixture of painful realization and dread sliced through Philip's heart and knocked every ounce of air from his lungs.

" _No_ ," was all he could say, tearing a hand through his curls and taking a step back with each monosyllable, " _no_ , _no_ , no _, no_ , _no_ , no." His feet moved of their own accord, and his backpedaling now led him to the kitchen threshold, which, as he wasn't watching where he was going, he promptly tripped over.

His body didn't even register the pain when he thudded to the floor, as the three adults rushed over to him, their eyes rippling in concern.

His mother somehow already had gauze in her hand as she scanned him for bruises, and her red eyes telegraphed but one question: "My son, are you going to be okay?"

Feeling as if his heart had stopped, he answered her unspoken question with another choky " _No_ ," before he bolted into the room closest to him—which just so happened to be his father's—no, _Alexander Hamilton_ ' _s—_ study and locked the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 508


	19. right

After hearing the study door slam and the lock click, Alexander leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, knowing fully that well-bred Eliza would not appreciate his lounging, but he felt that her discomfort was a small price to pay for her part in this fiasco. Speaking of Eliza, Alexander was being all too-careful to ignore her eyes, which he knew would be red and rimmed with tears, for even at his most unforgiving, he still _loathed_ to see her cry. It had buckled his heart when he had decided to let her fellow miscreant ebb the tears that washed down her face before and not he himself.

He ignored the slimy feeling that welled up in his stomach and, focusing his stare on the door, addressed Eliza and John, who were together surveying the locked study with crestfallen faces. "Well, I hope you two are satisfied. You've made a bastard of and ruined the life of a completely innocent boy."

Eliza let out a sob at the accusation, but John trotted forward, his fists balled and a determined gleam in his eye. "We're going to make this _right_." He took a step toward the study door. "That's why I came here, after all."

Alexander made no comment and just watched as Eliza followed him, but, before John could knock on the door, he turned to her and whispered, "Betsy, you've played the part of the dutiful mother for _years_ — _I_ ' _m_ the one who hasn't been here. Let _me_ try and talk to him. _You_ go and make sure Alex is all right."

He kept one eye on John, who knocked quietly at the door, and one on Eliza, who, still had tears trickling down her cheeks, as she made her way toward him. However, he was in no mood to allay her flood, even _if_ it pained his heart to a torturous degree, and uninvitingly turned to walk up the stairs, leaving Eliza to swallow a sob and rock herself in one of the chairs in the kitchen.

Alexander did not get a particle of satisfaction from this slight, but he refused to go back and ask forgiveness for his incivility. Instead, he sat on the top of the stairs, craned his neck, and tried to listen to whatever apologetic drivel ( _his_ words) John was spouting at Philip through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 392


	20. HONESTY IS NOT A TOPICAL MEDICATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> john tries to get thru to philip

There was only one person that John Laurens blamed for this catastrophe and it was none other than John Laurens himself. He wasn't going to _apologize_ for hightailing it back to England to see his precious Frances, because frankly, he loved his daughter more than words could express, and her death had killed more of him than he knew. He _may_ have been willing to beg pardon for faking his death, even though, in his defense, he hadn't expected to _ever_ come back to America, nevertheless, greet a son that he hadn't even known he had sired! 

He sighed. Valid reason it may have been, but back to the point: this situation was his own damn fault— _his_ fault for sleeping with Eliza and for _what_? To shake, just for a moment, a crushing sense of loneliness that always pervaded him whenever Alexander was not by his side? Yes, _absolutely_ (he was not proud of this fact and regretted it every moment he was alive). He had felt this loneliness in London, as well, but luckily, he had had Frances with whom to care for and divert himself with whenever the feeling became too difficult to bear.

John rubbed his temple. And all the way across the sea, while he had been reveling in watching his daughter grow up, here, in America, was a son who knew not of his father in England, and rather believed he was the offspring of the heralded Secretary of the Treasury. 

John knew that Alexander had given the boy everything that his own father had bereft him of, whether that be infinite amusement, buckets of love, or support that never ended, so he had no doubts that Philip had lived a pleasant fifteen years here. He actually had wondered if it would be wrong to even come today, to steal from the boy a happy delusion and replace it with a harsh truth that would bring him nothing but sorrow, but Alexander's face—although he tried to appear unmoved—had looked so _relieved_ when John had said he wanted to see Eliza and Philip, that he realized that honesty would be the kindest balm to apply.

But after seeing the boy's terrified face at his realization that his father wasn't his _father_ , John began to wonder if honesty was less of a topical medication and rather a stinging injection from the sharpest needle. 

Nevertheless, it had to be done.

When his knocks against the study door were met with silence, John leaned his head against the cool wood and lowered himself to the floor. His hand absently doodled into the grain as he said in a quiet whisper, "Hey, it's me." He hoped Philip could hear him through the door. "I know you hate me, and that's okay." He gulped. "I would hate me, too."

No response.

John quirked his ponytail and continued, "I just ... if I had known you were here—if I had only _known_ —Eliza—er, your mother, would have told me, I _know_ , but oh God, she thought I was dead ... she thought ..." 

His voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, as realization now struck him as to why he was never notified of the fact that he had a son. 

Because of that note.

The note that told anyone that any word sent to him would have to be repeated over his grave.

Goddammit, he had left that note about his death to save face when he had run off to England after just winning a war in America. At the time, he would have no one think that he was a brute who thought the country he had fought for was not good enough for _him_ , but damn that note! Damn it to hell! He would rather take all the muck flung his way for fleeing east than find out he had abandoned one of his children for _fifteen fucking years_.

John pounded his fist against his knee so hard it ached, and angry tears rolled down his cheeks. How _dare_ he! How fucking _dare_ he! He tried _so_ hard to keep the sob out of his voice as he choked, "Philip, I just—I just—need you to know how _sorry_ I am." He coughed violently, before digging his nails into the carpet as _some_ vent to keep his self-ire in check. "I'm _sorry_ , and I ... I can't say it _enough_ , but _please_ , let me tell you something ... I lived in England for so long knowing my heart wasn't quite full, but now ..." 

He realized that those words weren't merely some pretty prose, but rather rang true as he sat outside the study door. Even in London, he always knew that there was a gaping hole in his heart and after coming to New York City, he could tell that it was slowly filling back up again. He sort of had assumed that Alexander was all that he needed to top his heart up to maximum capacity, but even after seeing that dear, _dear_ man, he still had more room. Even after meeting Eliza, the hole remained, but he recognized that now, he was full only because he knew that _his son_ was on the other side of the study door.

However, his excitement at his great realization was effectively quenched when Philip's muffled voice growled, "If the pistols weren't locked up, I'd take one out and shoot you."

John bit back a smile, because oh _God_ , wasn't that impulsive temper _just_ like _his_? That idiotic desire to shoot first and be satisfied and ask questions later? If Philip wasn't a spitting image of him, that short little promise alone was enough to determine his parentage. 

"I wouldn't blame you a particle," was all John could say, "and would take the bullet manfully."

As there was no response after this, he began to brush back the carpet, which now stood up on end because of his scratching, and tried to think of what else to say to get through to the boy. His mind, however, provided him not a mite of refuge, for it was, at present, in a state of disarray because, _how_ was one supposed to atone for not being there for their child for _fifteen years_? He blew a curl out of his face as he murmured, "I'm sorry that I haven't been here all this time, but I _promise_ I _will_ be from now on—if you want me to be, that is. I would never ask to take the place of Alexander—er, no, your _fath_ —ah, no—yes, wait, yes—yes, _Alexander_ —but I can promise to be _there_." 

"Pops may be a cheater, but he's the _only_ father I need," was the icy reply. 

Ah, yes, John had heard of the sex scandal that was known as the Reynolds Pamphlet that had branded his friend as a scoundrel; he had read about it in the paper. He knew Alexander like the back of his hand and felt that something like this was inevitable but good _Lord_ , hadn't Eliza been plagued enough? His sympathetic thoughts were interrupted when he heard Philip realize to himself, "Mom's a cheater, now, too." 

Philip's voice was incredibly disillusioned as he said these words, and he sounded as if his entire world was a globe that had been knocked out of its holder. 

John didn't know what to say to that, except, "Your parents are only human, Philip."

There was a crash on the other side of the door, and it sounded as if Philip had thrown something. "I don't need _you_ to tell me that!"

"I know, I know," he replied, flinching. "It's just ... we're all human, Philip, even the adults who like to tyrannize over you. We make mistakes—and _no_ , that's not an excuse for me, for your mother, for your father. It's just ... that's how it is." He raked a hand through his curls. "I thought I was doing the right thing by going to England to be with my daughter, that's why I was gone, by the way, but obviously it _wasn_ ' _t_ , because I left _you_ behind."

Silence.

John sighed. He was willing to sit and speak to Philip for as long as it took, _if_ he had known it would do any good, but he could tell that the boy possessed a stubborn and plucky temperament like his father, so long speeches would be utterly useless. He rapped once on the door as he raised himself off the ground, turning to go, but determined to try again another day. "You don't have to forgive me, you don't have to love me, you don't have to want me here, but just know ... I _want_ to be here, but _only_ if _you_ ' _ll_ let me." When there was silence yet again, he felt it was time to say goodbye. "I'll leave you alone now, and I won't come anymore if you ask me not to, but I'd like to keep trying for ... whatever kind of forgiveness you can proffer me."

John did not hear the study door unlock or creak open, and he managed only one forlorn step in his exit before he felt a fist yank at one of his coattails and an unforgiving but resigned voice grumble, "You'll never be my Pops, but ... you don't have to go ... right now."

And, oh, John thanked _God_ that moment, with tears in his eyes, that Philip had inherited some of Eliza's merciful spirit!


	21. mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got kinda long, my apologies

For the next few days, John would skulk off in the early hours of dawn to work as a clerk in an office nearby. The office was run by a young man of nearly twenty years, who had been only five when John had been proclaimed dead and had no recollection of ever hearing the name. Also, as they were not the kind to frequent his office, this man was _not_ accustomed to interacting with persons younger than him, and therefore had never met Philip, and lived blissfully unaware of the two relatives and their similar appearance. In this man's office did John drudged day after day, sorting mail and organizing files, consigning himself to the jobs where he had to interact with the least amount of people. 

For a man with a thorough English education and a fierce desire to change the world, this kind of work was _pure_ torture. He had no choice but to bear it, though, for John knew it was his own fault that he had to assume this low-profile life. It didn't make the work any less menial and humdrum by any means, and his only solace was that every day after work, he was allowed to spend one hour at the Hamilton residence and divert himself with the family there, although he was under strict orders from Alexander that _most_ of that time _had_ to be spent with Philip.

John obliged cheerfully, for he knew that it was a mercy that Philip even _allowed_ his estranged father into his presence. But, even though these visits brought him respite from his dull job and lonely house, they were not exactly tailored to bring him any comfort.

The worst part was when Alexander divulged to the rest of the children that John was Philip's father, and whenever he went over there, they would shoot him glares that were worse than insults. It was difficult to be around Eliza, too. Years ago, they had been friendly enough to make pleasant conversation and _enjoy_ each other's company, but now ... every time he was in the room alone with her, she would shuffle away to "find Alexander." She never _did_ end up locating him, however, for she purposely always went in the _opposite_ direction of whatever room he was in.

The only person who seemed to _tolerate_ his presence was Alexander himself, though he made himself scarce whenever John came, preferring his friend to dedicate all his attention to Philip, which he understood. Though ... because of this purposeful distancing, John had half a mind to invite Alexander privately over for drinks, because dear _God_ , how he missed that man!

But he could only think things like this when he was safe in his own home, for at the Hamiltons, he devoted himself to his son, who was a belligerent fortress composed of both interest and disdain when it came to his biological father.

Most of the time, they said nothing, but sat in separate chairs and amused themselves alone, slowly drinking in the other's character by way of their actions until the time came when Philip was content enough with what he saw of his father to speak.

One day, as John put down his newspaper and looked at the clock, he said to Philip, "My hour's up, but I'll be back again tomorrow."

Philip said nothing, but he put down his book and walked his father cordially to the door. No other party came to see him off, except Alexander, who peeked out from his office. John nodded at both friend and son, as Philip opened the door to let him out. 

However, just as John stepped across the threshold and out of the house, a war-veteran-turned-businessman happened to be walking down the usually empty street. Everyone knew him to be of the gossipy sort, and when the man looked up to see the near-identical Philip and John standing in the doorway, he gasped and sped off. 

At that moment, John's face paled and he began to feel very, _very_ cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 674


	22. whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have two more chapters written so i will be posting those consecutively and then take a small hiatus from writing

Philip was no stranger to whispers. He'd dealt with them his whole life, and their content evolved as his father's status in society morphed from argumentative Cabinet member to disgraced infidel. At least all the whispers then had been easier to defend against, for _no_ one badmouthed _Alexander Hamilton_ under _his_ watch—but how was he _now_ supposed to confront rumors that had everything to do with _himself_?

 _"His_ name _is Hamilton, but I heard from Mr. Laurence that he's a bastard."_

 _"Mr. March told_ me _that his father's some kind of war vet."_

_"War vet? Yes, that's right. Mrs. Bhaer told me that his father was that Laurens fellow who died years ago!"_

_"That's not what_ I _heard. Mr. Brooke said that Laurens was ashamed of him and hightailed it to England after the war_ so that he wouldn't have to _deal with having a bastard of a son! He would rather have the world remember him dead than be known as the father of_ that _boy!"_

_"Speaking of Laurens, did you hear that he didn't actually die and that he's here now? Perhaps a reckoning will be in the future."_

Like eerie phantoms, _these_ were the whispers that followed him down the streets, startling him from every direction with the mean countenances that manifested with the words. His mother had even pulled him out of school, for there, the students and teachers did nothing but stare at him—some cruelly, some only curiously—and the rumors spread faster than students at the recess bell.

He couldn't even deny them, because most were founded in a stupidly solid truth that he _couldn't_ refute or repudiate.

It was _so_ much worse this way.

Eliza and Alexander would often find him locked in James' and his room, where he was petted by Angelica or administered comforts by the baby, whose chubby self was much concerned by his oldest brother's troubles. Neither could assuage his trauma for very long, and Philip would slip into deep bouts of despondency where he couldn't even be persuaded out of his room when John called, even though he usually possessed an irate kind of intrigue at his biological father's visits.

There was no one who could bring him out of this very much expected funk, for _he_ was the one who took the fact that the secret got out the hardest and was the one who suffered the most.

However, he _was_ possessed to leave his room one day, when he learned that a knock on the door had brought into the house a tall, stately woman, dressed in the finest attire that a wealthy London socialite could buy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 443


	23. stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Angelica stirs the waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters today, considering it's all i have left written so far and i want to get everything out before the thanksgiving holiday season so i don't have to worry about it and just take a break from writing!

The Hamilton home _used_ to be a cheery place, bustling from without and within with children, all of whom were managed by a sunshiny mother and a father who showered them with every iota of love that he had. Then, after the trouble, it had become as silent as a graveyard, the only sounds being the innocuous puttering about the floor by its inhabitants, who had never seemed grayer or grimmer.

But upon James' startled "Aunt Angelica!" when he greeted the woman at the front door, the house, for just a moment, was brought back to its former, vivacious glory, as the children congregated about their wealthy and kind aunt, like monarchs to a patch of milkweed.

Eliza's face twisted out of its permanent frown into a small smile that Philip, who stood in the circle of warm greetings but did not partake in the revel, had not seen in a very long time.

After making several remarks with auntlike interest into all her niece and nephews' affairs, Angelica's eyes roved about the room until they landed upon Alexander. Her eyes kindled and she growled, as she stomped over to him and poked her parasol in his chest. Before she said anything more, she turned to one of her nephews and said, "Philip, you and James take my bags upstairs. Let the children come with, for inside there are some droll little things for you all from the Palais Royale when I went there last summer." They obeyed immediately, and as the last set of feet toiled up the stairs, she resumed her irate stance toward Alexander.

Angelica's gloved hands had been clenched in a fist until now when she uncurled her fingers to reveal a very much crumpled looking copy of the Reynolds Pamphlet. "I didn't get a chance to write that I was coming—I left as soon as I heard." She grit her teeth. "Alexander, with this, you have invented a _new_ kind of stupid."

"Angelica, don't—" began Eliza, who understood that at this waterfall of blame, Alexander would find a vent in airing out _her_ misdeeds.

This was a fair assessment; Alexander had known from the moment he saw Angelica's picturesque curls in the doorway that this was the reason she had come, but he assumed a cool air and said in a derisive tone, "Oh, dear sister, much you know about _nothing_."

" _What_ are you talking about?" Angelica demanded, only now noticing that her sibling had gone white.

"Why don't you ask _Eliza_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 418


	24. promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander and Eliza make a promise equal in importance to their wedding vows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the long chapter

After hearing the whole story, Angelica's _face_ was unreadable, while her _eyes_ bloomed with so much grim feeling that Alexander, who had spouted the facts with vindictive enthusiasm when his wife wouldn't speak, sunk lower into his chair.

Eliza, who sat across from him, stared at Angelica with a sorrowful countenance, for it was clear that she would receive no petting or defense from her sister now. She swallowed hard. She _knew_ she was in the wrong here, and she would have gladly admitted it, but the whole ordeal that was the Reynolds Pamphlet hung over her head like a rotten piece of low-hanging fruit.

"Eliza, is this true?" asked Angelica, clearing her throat and turning to confirm Alexander's story with despairing eyes.

She forced herself to meet her sister's gaze and choked down the breathy feeling in her throat. "It's true."

Angelica turned around and walked out of the room, appearing a moment later and dragging behind her a chair from the kitchen. She placed it between them and sat down with a huff of exasperation, cradling her head and moaning, "You two are a _mess_." After rocking herself for a moment, she shot up. "And you said that John _didn't_ die and he's actually in town right now?" At Alexander's nod, back went her head into her arms. " _Poor Philip_."

"Oh, don't 'poor Philip' him just yet," snapped Alexander, "not until you've heard what that _imbecilic_ Theodore Crocker did. He saw Philip standing next to John one day by the door when he was passing by, and _immediately_ made the connection that John was alive and that they were father and son. He told _everyone_ , of course, because no matter what kind of fancy haberdashery he runs now, he's still the same gossip who spread around at Valley Forge the fact that Laurens and I shared a b—nevermind."

Angelica's jaw dropped. It was suddenly clear to her as to why her normally sweet-tempered nephew had looked so sullen upon her arrival. "You need to fix this." She raised her eyebrows at her sister. " _Both_ of you."

"Philip ... isn't talking to anyone right now," admitted Eliza. She fiddled with her apron string. "He's taking this all very hard."

"As expected," Alexander retorted. "He's a fifteen-year-old boy whose entire world has been turned upside down."

Angelica nodded. "And to top it all off, now that everyone knows, that same world has turned its back on him." She grabbed one of Alexander's hands and one of Eliza's. "He needs to know that at least his parents are still in his corner. Oh, and John, too. He _really_ should be here for this."

"Don't worry, I'll tell him. I'll probably see him later today since he invited me next door for a drink." Alexander shrugged. "I think I'll go."

"Okay, then," Angelica affirmed, as she squeezed both of their hands. "Then you promise that you'll each _talk_ to Philip and comfort him in any way you can?"

Eliza and Alexander didn't lock eyes, since this was bigger than their quarrel, but they were thinking of each other as they both pledged, "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wc: 522


End file.
